


Collared

by Sycophantism



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/M, Light Bondage, Master/Pet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 18:44:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sycophantism/pseuds/Sycophantism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean’s wearing a collar, Annie is ruthless, and unless he wants to give her up completely he has to do everything she says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Collared

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while ago and never posted it, but I got some requests for Jean x Annie sooooo...........
> 
> Tumblr: http://sycfix.tumblr.com/post/75222301294/collared-annie-x-jean

Anyone who planned to serve as a soldier was well acquainted with belts. All three of the divisions utilized the 3D maneuver gear, some more than others. The trainees were in them all the time, during every training drill and exercise. The bruises came and went depending on how many lessons they had with the gear, but over the months they became more like permanent marks, brands of the job. The skin was always darker, never quite blue anymore, and the pain that accompanied bruises was gone after a while. They became part of the soldier, their tattoo of devotion.

The belts were everywhere. Even after cattle became scarce, there were reserves of gear that could probably last another ten years worth of new trainees. There were sheds for damaged gear, and depending on the state of it, they sometimes recycled the leather to make new belts. Other times, they were simply discarded, or put to use elsewhere. Worn leather would snap too easily, and those belts were the lifelines of the soldiers just as much as the cables in their chambers. 

That's where Jean thinks she gets it. One of those sheds must be on base, and she must have gotten into it, because the leather feels too familiar against his skin. It's the exact same as their gear, though the position is all wrong. The nearest bruises are on his shoulders, running down and across his chest, but this belt is looped carefully around his neck, her fingers tilting his chin up and baring his throat so she can see the buckle. When he swallows, he can feel the metal clasp against his adam's apple. She cinches it closed, until the material is snug against him. Each breath, he can feel it.

Finally she steps away and he lowers his head, lifting a hand to touch at the leather. A swift swat makes him flinch, arm dropping to his side before he even realizes it. Sliding his other hand across his lap, he rubs the red spot on his wrist, pursing his lips indignantly but remaining silent. 

Leaning forward in front of him, she reaches out and loops a rope through the buckle. Knotting it securely, she gives a light tug, and his head moves forward to follow the motion. "Stay," she orders, and he steels himself as she drags at the rope. The belt pulls tight against the back of his neck and he tilts his head away, trying to stay in place. Finally, satisfied, she relaxes the pressure, and he sighs.

A swift kick to the side knocks him to the bed and he huffs, curling up slightly and holding his ribs. That would bruise. Squinting, glaring across the room, he doesn't move as she climbs onto the bed, swinging a leg over to his other side and kneeling above him. "Roll over." Lips tight, he turns slowly onto his back, staring up at the ceiling resolutely. 

There's no preamble, no teasing. He knows she wants it, and deep in his gut that's a relief, because he wants it too. Moreover, though, the thought of what she would do if she wasn't horny - if she had time or desire to go slow - is what makes him nervous about this. If she ever put her mind to it, he knows she could break him so easily, slam him against the ground and get him begging for whatever she wanted. She's strong, that's part of it, but she's smart, and that's more. Plenty of people are better than Jean Kirschtein in a fight, but Annie Leonhardt is the only one that can truly beat him. 

She takes off his pants, and underwear, and then his shirt, which makes him shut his eyes anxiously. Her fingers touch his chest, lightly at first, and he bites his lip to brace himself. There's never an action that's not calculated or meaningful, and never directly for his benefit. When she pinches his nipples, he's not surprised, and he shudders out a low sound of discomfort, fingers twisting in the sheets. For a long time she twists and pulls at them, until the skin is red and he's gasping with every little brush against them. He's hard, cock standing erect against her leg, and he swallows thickly when her hands migrate towards it, stroking up the length.

"Roll over," she commands again before sliding off and laying beside him. Following orders, rolling onto his hands and knees above her, he cuts his eyes across the room, ignoring the flush of mixed arousal and humiliation on his face. Like this, it's harder not to look at her. Impossible not to when she tugs at the rope and says, "Here, boy." Even for something like this, she's using that kind of talk, and it's hard to drag his gaze to hers, takes all of his willpower to look her in the eye. 

There's several minutes when she just stares up at him, makes him stare down at her. His heart skips a few times, breath shivering in and out of his nose, lips tight and face burning. More than once he feels the need to look away, but somehow he resists the urges each time. He can't read her, doesn't know what she's thinking, and eventually the tension slips away from him, lips parting just slightly as he tries to quiet his breathing. Even with a collar on, even with a leash on, he tried to retain his pride, his dominance. It's a foolish endeavor, every time, because she always wins, and he knows it. Putting up the struggle is never even worth it; he isn't a masochist, he doesn't enjoy being hard as a rock and having no contact whatsoever on his dick. 

"Down, boy," she murmurs, and he lets out a shaky breath, lowering himself and pressing the head of his cock against her pussy. A sharp tug to the leash makes him twitch, freezing, and she pulls his face down slowly. Swallowing, his face hovering scant inches above hers, he waits, fingers trembling in the sheets. Her free hand reaches out, slapping his thigh, and he jolts forward, biting back a sound. It's permission, or he thinks it is, he hopes it is, because he presses in, pushing his cock inside of her to the hilt. Mouth falling open, he pants for breath, vision hazy at the tight, wet heat around him.

"Oh god," he mutters, voice shaking. Immediately the leash is yanked and he flinches, her fingers in his hair and dragging his head back.

"What was that? I didn't say speak." There's an apology on his lips but it goes unspoken as he gasps for a few quiet breaths. "Speak, dog."

"Sorry." His voice is quiet, just a little unsteady, but he manages to keep it somewhat dignified. 

Her heel digs into his ass, driving his hips forward as she clenches tightly around his cock, shoving down against him. The fingers in his hair tighten further and he's bowed backwards, scrabbling for grip on the mattress. "Try again," she orders quietly, and he pants for a steady breath. " _Speak_."

"S-- ah-h, s-- sorry--" Each breath is a struggle, words difficult for all kinds of reasons. The pleasure tingling up his spine has him trembling slightly, vision blurring as his hips twitch against hers.

"Now fuck me," she mutters, releasing his hair. Hanging his head, swallowing, Jean pulls out and quickly thrusts back in, a weak little moan spilling past his lips at the relief. Each movement is desperate, like it'll be the last, out nearly to the tip and in to the root every time. Arms trembling to keep himself up, he resists the urge to lean down on his elbows, knowing at the back of his mind that she hasn't given him permission to change positions. The collar and leash are limp on his neck, and her legs are around his waist, hips rolling up to meet every thrust. Nails dig into his back and he gasps, arching, as she drags them down along his ribs and to his sides. Gripping his hips, she makes sure he doesn't relent, doesn't slow down.

Feeling weak, hanging his head, Jean whines in the back of his throat, desperate for release, desperate to relax. His skin stings where she scratched him, his arms are ready to collapse, and his hips feel bruised and tired from rutting forward so hard, so long. 

Somehow she knows that his mind is miles away, because suddenly the slack on his leash is gone and she jerks him down, making his eyes fly open with a startled gasp. "Beg." Again with the fucking dog euphemisms. For a second, it actually pisses him off, and he sees the second she notices that because her expression turns stormy and he remembers who's in charge. He remembers why he's allowed to fuck her, why no one else has to know about the arrangement, and why he's been performing so much better now that the sexual tension is gone from his muscles.

It's all because _she lets him_. And she only lets him if she's in charge.

Somewhere along the line, that concept had wrapped its way around his brain in the worst way possible. When she very carefully tells him again to beg, he knows she won't give him permission to cum, and rather than being frustrated by the thought, or rather than considering pulling out and finishing himself off, he takes it as fact and has to bite back a whimper. Even if he did do just that-- pull out and finish by himself-- he'd lose this. Or, marginally better, she would throw him down and make him wait even longer. _Marginally_ because he couldn't tell if waiting that long to cum could be better, and _better_ because it was preferrable to never getting to fuck her again.

"Please." So he begs, the word catching on the shame building in his throat. 

She receives the plea impassively, and he groans in the back of his throat, fingers digging into the sheets as he slows his hips. Without missing a beat she slaps his thigh, making him jolt forward again. The next outward motion is back to his original rhythm, just short of desperate, and it's building him closer and closer to his orgasm. Blinking blearily, he bites his lip hard, sucking in breath through his nose, before his arms give out and his front half drops, catching himself on his elbows. A frantic moan rolls off his tongue and he buries his face in the crook of her neck. "Please, Annie, please, come on," he whines, voice sounding like it's ready to break. 

"No." Another slap to the thigh makes him flinch against her collar and he mumbles wordless pleas against the pale skin of her shoulder as the sting fades. She clenches around his cock and he gasps, the sound catching in his throat.

"Please, please, please--" The plea is a hopeless mantra on his lips, and the more times he says it the less it sounds like a real word. Eventually it loses meaning completely and he can't even tell if he's speaking or simply moaning against her, ass clenched and legs tense as he staves off the tightly bundled knot in the pit of his stomach. The next time he realizes he's coherent, he only hears himself whimpering, "No, no, no, no." Shaking his head, hips jerking unevenly, he's torn between stopping completely to lessen the torment, and going all out to end it. Neither option is within his grasp and he lets out a broken sob.

"Out," she orders, and he's on his back before he even realizes his cock is heavy against his stomach.

"Please," he manages to choke out, and her fingers dig into his hips, shoving and rolling him over. The friction of the blanket on his cock makes him jolt forward and he lets out an open-mouthed moan against the mattress.

An instant later he yelps as her hand cracks down against his ass. Once again he jumps, and once again the friction has him shuddering violently. The next slap is even harder, on the other cheek, and he feels tears spring to his eyes as he tangles his fingers in the sheets and lets out a weak little groan. The pain is fucking nothing compared to the ache building in his dick and he's going to lose it if she doesn't say the fucking word soon. 

And, after ten more heavy strokes that have him panting loudly for breath, she does: "Cum." The next time she slaps him, the sting jostles his hips forward and his cock glides along the wet spot his precum had made in the sheets. As soon as the pleasure shoots up his spine he gives a sharp, hoarse shout and cums, the climax setting off fireworks in the back of his skull. Eyes squeezed shut, clawing at the sheets, he ruts down shamelessly and rides out his orgasm.

There isn't even a second to catch his breath before the belt is suddenly pulled flush against his throat and he chokes, scrambling to shove himself up. "Fucking hell, Annie," he manages to bite out when he's getting air into his lungs again. 

Her fingers wind themselves through his hair and shove his face down, once again bringing the collar taut around his neck. "Did I say speak?" The helpless groan he lets out trails off into a hapless whimper as she shoves his face down into the mattress. 

Isn't she fucking done _yet_?


End file.
